Remedy
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She'd tried to anticipate every little thing, but anticipation can only take you so far. (Spoilers for the first two minutes of "The Final Break". This story is set during the opening moments of "The Final Break", but veers from canon very quickly. In other words, it's decidedly Non-Epilogue-Compliant.) ONE-SHOT


Of all the things she'd anticipated on this particular day, sunburn definitely hadn't been one of them.

Oh, she'd been careful, slathering lotion on her arms and shoulders before she'd donned her dress - God, her _wedding_ dress – but having only one pair of hands was just another downside to her insistance on preparing for the ceremony alone. Perhaps she'd been distracted by the sight of her newly lush profile in the mirror, or maybe by the silent storm of tears she'd wept over her father's absence. Whatever the reason, she thinks as as she gazes into the bathroom mirror and winces at the mottled pink and white skin of her left shoulder, she has to admit the obvious.

She'd missed a spot.

It had been the guys' fault she'd lost track of how long she'd been in the sun, she decides. Plural. All of them. Today hadn't just been a wedding day, it had been a day to celebrate an ending, to rejoice in new beginnings and a future none of them had truly believed possible. Instead of retiring quietly and quickly to their hotel room as newlyweds may have been expected to do, she and Michael had spent almost five hours with Lincoln and Sucre, dancing and laughing and drinking and slapping backs and kissing cheeks. Every time her gaze had met Michael's, the promise of what lay ahead when they were finally alone had blazed in his eyes, but neither of them had wanted to leave the party.

Because, she had mused as Lincoln had shot her a grin over the top of his brother's head as the two of them sat huddled together over their beers, today had been about so much more than just her and Michael. And that's exactly how it should have been.

Now it's after four in the afternoon, and they're finally alone. _The three of them_, she thinks with a faintly giddy smile. As far as she knows, Lincoln and Sucre are still downstairs, still chatting to several pretty girls (she trusts chatting will be all they're doing) and sampling every imported beer the hotel has to offer. Her new husband – and again, how surreal does _that_ thought feel – is on the phone to room service, ordering club sandwiches and a fruit platter, and she is in the bathroom, looking in dismay at her tender, scarlet skin.

"Ouch." She turns to find him in the bathroom doorway, frowning at her shoulder. "That looks painful."

"I'm about to find out." She gingerly lifts the strap of her dress away from her skin, gritting her teeth as the inflamed blood vessels make their presence felt. "Okay, yes, that hurts."

Having strolled into the bathroom, he curls his hands around her elbows as he stands behind her. "You need to take a hot shower."

She frowns at his reflection. "You mean a cool one."

He shakes his head, a half-smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "Cold water will only make it worse." She opens her mouth to protest, but he's too quick for her. "Trust me, I've been on the receiving end of this kind of thing, remember?"

She swallows hard, thinking of his post-laser treatment skin, the swollen, tender flesh that looked as though it had been burned off with a blowtorch. And, she thinks with a sudden pang of irritation, it may has well have been.

"Make the water as hot as you can stand it." Their eyes meet in the mirror for a long moment, then he dips his head, brushing his lips across her inflamed skin with the lightest of kisses. "And don't use any soap on that shoulder."

"Who's the doctor here?" she asks him, amused by his no-nonsense instructions.

His reflection simply smiles at her as his fingertips slide upwards, moving from her elbows to her shoulders, then to the straps of her dress. His touch dances lightly over her mottled sunburn, then the straps of her dress are gliding downward. She leans back against him, watching his face in the mirror, his expression of utter concentration doing rather odd things to the pit of her stomach. "Michael?"

"Hmmm?" His hands are tangled in her hair now, brushing it aside so he can kiss the back of her neck.

Her bare toes curl into the tiles beneath her feet as a heat completely unrelated to her sunburn sinks into her skin and down into her very bones. "How hot a shower can _you_ stand?"

His hands are on her belly now, the silky fabric of her dress shifting between her skin and his palms with a maddeningly teasing motion. "I have a very high tolerance for pain." Another kiss, this time just below her ear, letting her feel the warm sweep of his tongue against her skin. "You know that."

She does. God help her, she does. She's seen him withstand things that defy belief, endure things that would have felled another man in his tracks. But now they're here. They're here, and the only pain to be endured this afternoon is her sunburn and the ridiculously overpriced cost of their room service. "How long until the food arrives?"

"I told them to bring it up in an hour," he murmurs, his left hand sliding down to capture her hand in his. His wedding band clinks against hers, the tiny sound seeming to echo through the tiled room. "I thought I'd err on the side of caution."

"For a change," she murmurs teasingly as she tilts her head back to rest against his shoulder, hardly recognizing the smiling, _glowing_ woman in the mirror.

"It's a day of firsts," he says, then he's turning her around to face him and his mouth is on hers. It's their first real kiss since the almost shy buss they'd exchanged in front of their wolf-whistling friends hours earlier, and it quickly turns from soft and tender to something that makes her knees buckle and her hands clutch at his shoulders. Sliding his arms around her waist, he lifts her up until she's sitting on the wide marble vanity, his mouth devouring hers in a kiss that goes on and on and on.

He tastes of beer and sunshine and heat and she's drowning in it, buoyed on a rush of desire that has her pulling him closer, her bare feet curling around the backs of his thighs. She thinks she says _yes_ and _please_ but she can't be sure if the words have left her lips, because his hands are beneath her dress now, touching her knees, her thighs, between her thighs, his knuckles lightly grazing the silk of her carefully chosen underwear. Her whole body shudders, the familiar heavy ache settling over her, the thrum of arousal singing through her blood, tightening her breasts, her groin, her belly.

When she slides her hand down between them, pressing her palm firmly against the thick ridge of his erection, he lifts his head, his chest heaving as though he'd just scaled the building to reach their private balcony, and gives her a rueful smile. One hand cupping her flushed face, he gently dances his fingertips across her sunburned shoulder. His hand, she notes with satisfaction, isn't quite steady. "Time for that shower, I think."

As pleasantly distracted as she is, she doesn't protest. There is sand between her toes and the backs of her knees and sticking to her hairline and - well, it seems to be everywhere. She'd teased Michael earlier for being so over-dressed while the rest of them wore beach-friendly clothing, but it looks as though he may have had the last laugh.

The next two minutes are a study in time management, Michael Scofield-style. Her dress slithers to the floor with a whisper, his clever fingers quickly unhooking the strapless bra she'd worn in deference to her newly sensitive breasts. He'd discarded his socks and shoes as soon as they'd arrived in their room, and he's dealt with the rest of his clothes before she's even managed to turn on the shower. His hands mold the shape of her hips as she hastily disposes of the remnants of her underwear, then he's pulling her into the shower stall, reaching past her to adjust the water temperature and position her beneath the nozzle so her shoulder will receive the lion's share of the spray.

She hesitates. She trusts this man with her life, but the last thing she wants is to spend her wedding night messing around with salve and ointment, and she's never read anything about a hot shower being beneficial in this situation. "Michael, are you sure-"  
He grins. "Trust me."

The hot water hits her inflamed skin, making her suck in her breath, then he's kissing her again, his hands stroking her from breast to thigh, teasing and sliding and coaxing. Her left shoulder starts to glow with an internal heat, and somewhere in the back of her mind she imagines the blood rushing to the surface of her skin, opening every tiny pore, shrinking the swollen, sun-damaged cells. Then again, she thinks as she slides her hands over his water-slicked chest, maybe she's just willing to believe anything at this point.

Steam fills the room, filling her lungs and clearing her senses. Michael's hands are on her breasts, cupping and stroking, and she shudders with pleasure at every new touch. When he brushes his thumb against her nipple, the simple gesture sends a bolt of heat straight to her groin, and she sinks her teeth into the curve of his neck. Her fingertips dig into his hips, pulling him closer, curling one leg around his until the sleek thrust of his erection is pressed hard against her, sending another jolt of desire through her. God, any more of this and she is going to come before he's barely touched her below the waist, let alone anything else a satisfactory wedding night might entail.

As though reading her mind, he wraps one arm around her, reaching behind her with the other to turn the water off. As she blinks her waterlogged eyelashes, he cups her face in his hands. "How's your shoulder?"

She tries to give the question its full due, which is difficult to do when she's naked and he's naked and his body is pressed against hers from breast to knee and all the heart-stopping places in between. She closes her eyes, and does her best to isolate the heat in her left shoulder from the very different heat suffusing the rest of her body. When she opens her eyes, he's smiling at her with a tenderness that makes her heart contract, and it's a pleasure to tell him the truth. "Much better."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

Drying themselves off is a very cursory matter, owing more to engrained etiquette than anything else, and they're soon stretched out together on the obscenely oversized bed. Her damp hair falls like a tangled curtain as she presses a line of kisses across his chest, and he threads a lazy hand through it. "How was your day today, Doctor Tancredi?"

She grins against his second rib, then continues in her exploration. "Not bad, actually." She shifts down the bed until she's kneeling between his legs, her hands on his hips. "I got up, enjoyed a complimentary breakfast, put on a new dress." Bowing her head, she brushes her cheek against the silken heat of his erection, smiling at his sharp intake of breath. "Oh, and I got married. That was pretty good, too." She turns her head to find him with her lips, and the hand in her hair convulses.

"Sara-"

She smiles, loving the dry-heat pulse of his flesh against her lips, not feeling a single ounce of guilt over his anguished expression. "Hush."  
Neither of them say much for the next few minutes, at least nothing intelligible. The room fills with soft murmurs and rough groans and pleading whispers. She's torn between watching his face and closing her eyes to better savor the feel of him, so hot and alive, against her lips and her tongue. He twists beneath her, his hands still buried in her hair, his breathing growing ragged and uneven. When she finally pushes him to the brink, her name is little more than a harsh entreaty torn from his lips as his body surrenders to her touch.

By the time she's crawled up the bed to his side, his chest is still heaving, but he seems to have regained the power of speech. "If I'd known you were planning to do that," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction, "I might not have stayed for those last four beers."

She chuckles, sliding her thigh over his, enjoying the prickle of his leg hair against her skin. "I hadn't planned it at all, to be honest."

Leaning over, she presses a kiss over his still pounding heart, wondering if she'll ever get over the thrill of knowing she's the one who makes his pulse race. "It was just one of those things."

Rolling onto his side, he glides one hand over the curve of her hip to cup her bottom. "The thing is, you've forced me to change _my_ game plan."

She smiles at him, blinking away a sudden blur of tears. "It wouldn't be the first time."

His answering smile seems to touch every part of her, finally wrapping itself around her heart. "No, it wouldn't." She closes her eyes as his fingertips stroke the gentle swell of her belly, then lower to brush the soft hair between her thighs, then the slick, hidden flesh beneath, his touch exquisitely, devastatingly accurate. "Luckily, I'm used to thinking on my feet."

She bites her bottom lip, swallowing a gasp as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. "But you're not technically on your feet -"  
He leans over her, his mouth hovering against hers, his breath warm against her lips as he gives her a wolfish smile. "Hush."

She does.

Much later, she realises that despite all their precautions, there is still sand in the sheets and her sunburned shoulder is nudging the line between between ignorable and uncomfortable. On any normal night, these things would bother her. Tonight, though, Michael's chest is warm against her back, his arm draped around her waist, his hand splayed protectively over her belly, his gold wedding band glowing against his tanned skin. Of all the things she'd anticipated on this day, she thinks, these are the only things that matter.


End file.
